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<title>a woman’s best friend is her blood by ruiconteur</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23541280">a woman’s best friend is her blood</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruiconteur/pseuds/ruiconteur'>ruiconteur</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>begins as a lump in the throat [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Don’t copy to another site, Feminist Themes, Gen, Poetry, Slam Poetry, i’m back on that feminist juice fellas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:35:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>348</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23541280</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruiconteur/pseuds/ruiconteur</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>there is a saying that goes like this:<br/>a woman’s first blood<br/>comes not from<br/>between her legs, but from<br/>biting her tongue.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>begins as a lump in the throat [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1694134</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a woman’s best friend is her blood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>in which i bitch about men because i am tired and angry</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>there is a saying that goes like this:<br/>
a woman’s first blood<br/>
comes not from<br/>
between her legs, but from<br/>
biting her tongue.</p><p>a pseudo-period, if you will—<br/>
a caesura that comes much too soon in<br/>
the language of a woman’s voice. a woman’s tongue<br/>
bleeds all the words she cannot say,<br/>
an enjambement in<br/>
court-room silences and<br/>
darkened-street tensions and<br/>
why can’t you just shut up and smile, bitch.</p><p>and you bear it like the women before<br/>
you bore disdain and condescension<br/>
as a too-worn steel coat,<br/>
your shoulders a wall with an<br/>
uneven foundation under the weight of<br/>
their patronisation. because a woman’s first blood comes<br/>
when a man tells her to sit down, <em>girl</em>, and keep quiet,<br/>
let the big boys talk business.</p><p>a woman’s blood speaks a language<br/>
all women instinctively know—<br/>
something unholy,<br/>
something ineffable,<br/>
something writhing under the cold glare of the moon<br/>
that cannot be let loose. a woman’s blood is<br/>
the end of the world, an apocalypse of<br/>
rot-black ribaldry and cankerous crudity<br/>
that we bite into our tongues before</p><p>it can be heard. <em>we</em>, women, can’t be heard.<br/>
we have to stay unblemished,<br/>
pretty in porcelain, lily-white,<br/>
a disillusioned dream, dream girl,<br/>
delicate and fragile as a withered flower, until<br/>
our words curl up in our throats like<br/>
half-formed caterpillar-butterfly abominations<br/>
not yet released from the chrysalis<br/>
of our thoughts.</p><p>because a woman’s voice is the clean remix of an elegy<br/>
men don’t want to know the truth of—<br/>
something superficial, something that won’t<br/>
scandalise, something suitably decorous.<br/>
and god forbid a woman’s voice be used<br/>
for anything but what<br/>
a man says it can. god forbid<br/>
<em>anyone</em> be made uncomfortable by a woman’s truth.</p><p>and what makes men more uncomfortable than<br/>
a woman’s blood? than the blood that stains our bones<br/>
with voiceless truths, our tongues with<br/>
less-than-polite anything, our bodies with all the<br/>
temerity we have been forced to restrain,<br/>
coiled inside of us like a corded leash<br/>
of shame<br/>
or anger<br/>
or wariness. it’s been there for so long</p><p>it’s hard to tell the difference anymore.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>come find me on <a href="https://ruiconteur.tumblr.com">tumblr</a> or <a href="https://www.instagram.com/ruiconteur/">instagram</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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